


Little Cinder Girl

by captainellie



Category: Cinderella (1950)
Genre: Bloody Footprints, Corruption, F/F, Fire play, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Trick or Treat: Extra Treat, Trick or Treat: Trick, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 20:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainellie/pseuds/captainellie
Summary: "Still the little cinder girl," Stepmother says.It strikes Cinderella, then, that Stepmother is dead and should not be standing before her.





	Little Cinder Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KeenWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeenWolf/gifts).



“Still the little cinder girl.” 

Stepmother stands in the doorway, a dark shadow against the blackness outside Cinderella’s sitting room. Cinderella did not hear the door open. She’d been dozing next to the hearth, chin dropped down to her chest. She scrambles to her feet, brushing ineffectually at her skirt. It is heavy and clean, a rich, embroidered fabric. She should not be sitting on the floor wearing it, should not be so close to the fireplace. All she manages to do is stain her fingers with ash.

Cinderella forces her hands to still, raises her chin, lowers her shoulders. She is a princess now, and she will be queen, and there is no reason for her to cower.

Stepmother moves, fluid and too fast. She crosses the room in the time it takes Cinderella’s heart to beat once; Cinderella’s breath catches in her throat. 

It strikes Cinderella, then, that Stepmother is dead and should not be standing before her.

She looks down, but Stepmother’s dark dress falls all the way to the floor, covering her feet. Feet that were bloody and broken by the time she danced herself to death while Cinderella watched from above, Stepmother and her two daughters, each dancing alone, each of them falling one upon another.

Cinderella opens her mouth to call out for her lady’s maid, but cold fingers catch her chin and hold her still. Sharp nails dig into the corners of her mouth. She tastes blood, bright and bitter on her tongue.

Stepmother tsks. “You do not want to do that.”

Cinderella does. 

She does not.

“You’re dead,” Cinderella tells her.

Stepmother laughs. It is far too light, too friendly, for who she is, for  _ what _ she is. “Am I?”

“Yes.” Cinderella says it too fast and her voice is weak. She tries again, putting more strength behind it, but -- the second time, it comes out a question. “Yes?”

“Yes or yes?” Again, that laugh. A little darker this time. A little sharper.

“Yes.” Third time’s the charm. Cinderella sounds sure of herself, confident and strong. She straightens, lifts her chin, stares regally at Stepmother. She has been practicing, trying to look like royalty. She is that, now, a princess who will be a queen.

She is a scullery maid, ash-smeared and afraid and alone.

“If I am dead, then why do you fear me?”

“I don’t fear you,” Cinderella says. Stepmother smiles, and her teeth are very sharp behind her lips, lips smeared with something red-black.

“Liar.”

Cinderella trembles, tucks her fingers into her skirts to hide their shake.

“You are dead,” she says again. “Why are you here?”

Stepmother closes the last of the distance between them. There isn’t much left. In between their words, when Cinderella wasn’t paying attention, she’s come closer, too close, shadows gathering around them. Now, she’s close enough their skirts touch, and Cinderella can feel the chill stabbing off her.

“You’re dead.”

Stepmother’s breath smells of old blood and dirty things when she leans in close, cheek to cheek. “Yes,” she says, and puts her hands to Cinderella’s throat.

Her touch is ice cold, and burns. It feels like she’s shoved a hot coal down Cinderella’s throat.

Cinderella cannot cry out for help, cannot speak, can barely breathe. Stepmother pushes her against the stone fireplace, holding her in place with one hand while she peels away Cinderella’s clothes with the other. Heat scalds the back of her legs as her skirts disappear, and far too soon she’s naked in front of the fire.

Stepmother puts her hands on Cinderella’s arms, ice against overheated skin. It hurts like the fire, in its own way, but something delicious crawls between her legs.

“Little cinder girl,” Stepmother says. There is ash on her fingers when she touches them to Cinderella’s face. “Too clean by far.”

“Leave me alone. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

This time, Stepmother’s laugh is as cold and as cruel as Cinderella remembers. “Nothing at all?” she asks and tweaks the tip of Cinderella’s nose. “Not one thing wrong you can think of?”

Cinderella thrusts her chin out, mulish. “No,” she snaps.

Stepmother’s hands fall to her breasts, fingers just touching the sides. “Your fireplace has not been cleaned,” she says. “There is grave dust under the bed.” Her fingers trail down Cinderella’s sides until, with no more warning, she thrusts one hand between Cinderella’s legs, dry and cold and burning. “And you are dirty, girl.”

Her fingers are inside, three of them, and the push of them hurts. Her fingers were always thicker than was in fashion, and they feel bigger now, bigger than her husband’s when he touches her, too gentle, bigger than when he eases himself into her.

Big enough they’ll break her, but still Stepmother pushes.

“Messy, messy,” Stepmother says. She jerks her fingers out. That hurts too, but the empty ache that follows is worse. Stepmother lifts her hand. Her fingers are wet. “Clean it up.”

She presses them to Cinderella’s mouth. Pinches her chin, sharp. Draws blood. Doesn’t need to. Cinderella is already opening her mouth, sliding her tongue along Stepmother’s fingers. The skin burns her tongue, the taste is familiar and strange.

Stepmother pushes them into Cinderella’s mouth, as hard and fast as she did below, until her nails touch Cinderella’s throat. Cinderella gags, breath caught, throat working. Stepmother keeps pushing, adds a fourth finger, fills Cinderella completely, and more.

Cinderella’s vision fades. Her body twitches, but she does not fight to breathe, does not fight to extract herself.

Stepmother withdraws again, leaves Cinderella panting and trembling, drool down her chin, and blood, and her body throbbing.

Cold fingers return between her legs. Stepmother ducks as she does so, bends too fast for Cinderella to follow, then rises again, something red-black caught between her fingers. She brings that hand closer still, and heat cuts across Cinderella’s bare skin.

“Little cinder girl,” Stepmother says, and brings the ember to her breast, touches it to her nipple. Cinderella’s screams tear from her throat, but the noises fall flat the moment they’re free. Stepmother moves it to her other breast, circles her nipple. Her skin turns red, blisters, and the pain tears into her.

“Stop,” Cinderella begs, no strength to her word.

“What was that?” Stepmother pushes four fingers inside her now, holding her open.

“Stop.” Stronger this time, still too high and too weak.

“Speak up,” Stepmother says. “I can’t hear you.” She takes the ember away from Cinderella’s breasts. Holds it down, low. Brings her hands together. Pushes it inside.

Cinderella screams as she catches fire from the inside out, shards of ice from Stepmother’s fingers, the terrible burn of the ember. Her body boils, her skin splits, and a terrible, painful pleasure rushes through her.

She falls into the fireplace, her head strikes hard against the stone, and she’s gone.

  
  
  


Cinderella wakes. She’s been dozing next to the hearth, chin dropped down to her chest. The fire has burned low, and her body, when she tries to move, is stiff from the chill. There is ash on her skirt, a rich, embroidered fabric, heavy and clean before she sank to her knees before the fire, overwhelmed by the demands of court.

Her nipples are tender and there is a burn between her legs. It cannot be from her husband, who is gentle, always, when he touches her, too careful not to cause her pain.

“Still the little cinder girl.” Stepmother stands in the doorway, a shadow against the shadows. The firelight does not touch her face.

“You’re dead,” Cinderella says. She stands, holds out her arms. Her hands are dark with ash. “Come warm yourself.”

Stepmother leaves bloody footsteps across the floor, staggered, perfectly shaped. Cinderella hates her, still, and would watch her dance herself to death every day without growing tired of it.

Cinderella takes off her clothes as Stepmother comes to her, one slow, limping movement at a time. She stands, naked, touches her fingers to her thighs, leaving ash behind. Opens her legs when Stepmother stops before her. Tilts her hips forward.

Stepmother puts her hand inside, no warning, no preparation, no wait, five fingers, knuckles too wide, ice burning through. Cinderella opens her mouth, and screams, and pleasure cuts through her.

  
  
  


Cinderella wakes by the hearth, ash on her fingers, ice on her tongue.


End file.
